he’s on your back, arms slung over your shoulders and femurs in your grip. he’s mumbling on about how he feels as though you shouldn’t love something like him, especially not when he’s like this.
you reassure him that it’s not his place to dictate what you love and that you won’t stop loving him because he’s your family and that’s gravity. that matters.
when he gets drunk, he either gets angry or vulnerable or both. when he’s in your company and yours alone, it’s like there’s no red, hot anger— just blue, heavy sadness.
he snickers like he’s mocking you or himself, no one can tell— and he takes a deep breath in before he chokes on the sudden intake of air. he coughs up all the things wrong with him and you nod through it all.
he’s nowhere near perfect, nor even tolerable to some. but to you, he is the only thing keeping you going, even if he can’t keep himself upright on most days.
once he’s done confessing all his sins on a whim, his head finally rests on the back of yours like he’s too exhausted to resist melting into you any longer. his beer battered breath hits your ear every time he snores and you wonder if it weren’t for you, he’d be doing this on the bar instead of your back. you don’t want to wonder something so lonely anymore.
you let your mind wander while you trudge home with his weight on your spine, the snow hitting the both of you like a reminder that you’re awake. he doesn’t even twitch with how he sleeps like a rock, and you appreciate his silent, sleepy cooperation.
you make it home with seconds to what you think is 2 am and papyrus is already waiting at the door, rolling his eyes and feigning annoyance at your predicament. you think of it sweetly and pat his cheek as he lets you in under his arm. he huffs like he doesn’t relish in the acknowledgment and takes sans off your back like an exchange of precious goods.
over his shoulder he’s slung and up the stairs you all go. sans is deposited into his bed, told he’s stupid under papyrus’ breath, and given a proper tuck in despite all of it.
you read papyrus his bedtime story before you depart and pull the bed out of the couch in the downstairs living room. you don’t have much in terms of a bed, but you still clutch onto what you possess, the cold biting at your toes. thinking of your family, fondly, affectionately, and feeling like its warm despite the melted snowflakes embedded in your clothes. maybe that’s love. to you, it is.
gummygunk
2087
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
